


steam will fog between us as we wait under quilts

by persianroselove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apartment, Danger, Drabble Collection, Egyptology, F/M, Family, French Kissing, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Hogwarts, London, Love, Ministry of Magic, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Paris (City), Poetry, Relationship(s), Short, Spells & Enchantments, Stargazing, Triwizard Tournament, Veela, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, chapters are short and this is all in good fun, just . . .
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-06 18:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11606457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persianroselove/pseuds/persianroselove
Summary: She pours hot tea into a jade kettle, her socked feet padding gently on the wooden floors and the vapor misting around her face. The room becomes strangely airless as he looks at her. He realizes, with a melancholy sort of quietness, that he is in love with her.— Fleur learnsAnglais. Bill learns how to love (à laFrançais).





	1. part ghost, part lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> the story title is taken from a poem / prose piece called "waiting for rain" by brett elizabeth jenkins, which goes like this (and is very fleur-and-bill, in my opinion):
> 
>   
>  _if you stay we can_   
>  _figure out how long it takes._   
>  _the way you kiss me around_   
>  _the wrists. tap messages on my back._   
>  _don’t say a word. write to me only in french._   
>  _turn the thermostat down to sixty and pad_   
>  _to the kitchen in socks, wrapped up in blankets_   
>  _like secrets. boil a pot of water. two cups will do._   
>  _come back with tea. steam will fog between us_   
>  _as we wait under quilts._   
> 
> 
> in other regards, this is a series of short chapters that detail the fleur and bill's relationship, as they are one of my dearest hp couples. these will not be play-by-play installations, but rather brief moments in their lives. some chapters will focus on only fleur or only bill, because i feel this fic revolves around family as well as enduring. please cut me some slack with the finer details; i haven’t read good ol’ harry potts in the longest time. there will probably be a few things that don’t quite fit, but this is all written with love and nothing else. my hope is that this fic will end with the beginnings of the next generation (i.e. fleur holding victoire, scene cut) but we'll see how that goes. my only other hope is that you enjoy this fic, even minimally. 
> 
> ever loving,  
>  anahita

After the Triwizard Tournament, she’s unable to breathe. She sits in one of the unused classrooms, desperately trying to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out,  _ in–and–out, in–and–out, in–and-out,  inandout, inandout, inandout –  _

She threads her fingers through her hair as she begins to hyperventilate, recalling for a brief moment the look in Viktor’s wolfish eyes, the way his stoic Bulgarian affection had been replaced by a strange blankness. And how she had been trapped in her own body, struggling against her own self. In this world and every other, there is nothing more terrifying than not being able to hear  _ yourself _ scream. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

Gradually, her breathing levels. 

A silvery ghost passes through the wall, its misty form seeping through the heavy grey stone and the oozing emerald moss that curled over patches of mortar. She’s silent, gliding over the damp floors, luminous skirts swishing and translucent dark hair floating lazily around her waist. She pays no mind to Fleur. She simply drifts leisurely on, to wherever she desires to go. 

Fleur sniffles, and it disturbs the quiet. 

The phantom turns, unearthly beautiful in a different way than herself. They look at each other, for a moment. Fleur almost wishes she could name it a silent companionship, she and this nameless spirit, but she knows that such things do not exist anymore. Understanding takes time, in these war-torn days. She should know better than anyone. (Considering that waif of a boy – Harry Potter. Look at what she’d thought of him. Look at what he is.) She peers at the pale woman over her baby blue sleeves, feeling smaller than she has in a long while. 

The wraith appraises her, cold grey eyes flashing over her pitiful huddled figure. A rip in her leggings, threads fringing at the cut. Gooseflesh prickling her shoulders, which are bared. There is blood in her hair, too, she thinks. She can smell copper. That, or she’s tasting it from biting her tongue too hard. She wants to cry. She wants to tell this spirit that she thinks the soft part of her chest has been lost, that gentle place which houses one’s heart. That she feels bruised, lonely, accompanied only by shadow and grief. That she cannot trust herself. That she cannot touch her Gabrielle. And that she doesn’t know if she can look her mother in the eye again. 

“Lost, are you?” the thousand-year old woman says. 

Perhaps such tragedies go unspoken. 


	2. & rain won’t make any difference?

Britain is a damned gloomy place. He’d almost forgotten home (Egypt being so wonderfully overwhelming and all) but back in the midst of it all, stuck at a desk job, it’s impossible to escape. To be frank, it’s bloody _boring._  
  
It’s like his whole life has become paperwork, his messy apartment, and sticking his head through the fireplace to talk to Ma every once in awhile. The Order hasn’t given him any proper assignment, which is bewildering too – given that they need all the help they can get. He hasn’t seen Da in a bit either, and it’s just – 

Fuck, he’s itching beneath his skin to just _do_ something, _anything._

Egypt had become familiar and snug in his time there: the wafting scent of cardamom that seeped into everything and the bitter bite of foamy Arabic coffee, the swollen red cairene sun and the hieroglyphic charms he’d just begun to get the hang of, his small, slightly suffocating apartment. Everything.

He especially misses his coworkers: Tahir, who’d pick up his slack when he was too exhausted to speak and prayed five times a day and knew all the good hole-in-the-wall restaurants; Yara, who spoke Coptic and Arabic and Hebrew and could outdrink them all and always carried almond cakes; and Nadine, lovely and mocha-eyed and sand-skinned. 

He remembers those stolen kisses in musty tombs sometimes, her delicate wrists around his neck and those long black lashes brushing against his cheekbones. It improves his mood only marginally when something reminds him of Nadine, because it’s not like he’s ever going to see her face again.

He sighs, before dipping his quill again and setting to work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title credits —  
> ernest hemingway, “farewell to arms”


	3. i feel alone, bewildered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: _moldu_ is the french variation of muggle, so i assumed that's what fleur would use rather than muggle. another note: hélène cixous and simone de beauvoir are two french poets referenced in this chapter, and they are highly recommended. exquisite poetry.

She feels lonely. She sits in airy classrooms, working through the charm papers due at the end of the day and studying delicate scrolls on pegasi, but she feels so alone. Anastasie is next to her, chattering about Raphael (the painter) and Raphael (her crush). Ismaël has his feet propped up on the desk next to hers, mumbling something around the black inkpen he’s got stuck in his mouth. Odeletta has been talking about her winter break for the past hour: something about a sparkling blue river, Baudelaire on the banks, and her mother’s collection of silver jewelry. 

She remembers telling them, tearfully, of what had happened, but they hadn’t understood. Anastasie had begun to weep on her shoulder in shared compassion. Ismaël had hugged her tightly, before telling her to forget it all. (How can she do that? How can she forget  _ him _ ? Those dark,  _ bonhomie _ eyes? She has already forgotten everything important: softness, benevolence, a simple life. She will  _ never _ forget.) Odeletta had performed a warming spell, rubbed her shoulders, and brought her a cup of white tea. She was the kindest out of all those who embraced her and apologized. 

But, still. One cannot call that understanding. Comfort, maybe, but. 

Her life is changed. This, no one can question. 

She is unable to explain how or why or when exactly this happened – perhaps when she saw that pale, still corpse on the field, that thing which once held a soul. Or maybe when she had crawled into her comforters and suddenly felt her chest close up, something blue clouding up her lungs and making her unable to breathe. Suffocation.  _ Fight-or-flight, fight-or-flight, bird, bird, bird, I–AM–A–BIRD!  _ She couldn’t speak for three days after. 

Maman sent her to Grandmère for a week after, and all they did was sit together and listen to Piaf and make lavender water. Sometimes, Grandmère would read some Cixous or Beauvoir in the evenings. Perhaps that’s the worst of it all. That she is understood, but only by a  _ Moldu _ poet dead a decade ago, who had written down her feelings carefully, “I’m not tragic these days, I don’t weep, but I feel alone, bewildered, far from you, far from everything — nothing has any meaning.”

Her life is changed. This, no one can question. It has been caressed by the darkness. 

So she will live her life like one turned towards the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title credits —  
> simone de beauvoir, from her letters to sartre.


End file.
